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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025835">All You Have To Do Is Call</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzedrine_calmstheitch/pseuds/benzedrine_calmstheitch'>benzedrine_calmstheitch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Birthday Party, Gen, Nanny isn't present but she is always here, Post-Canon, food mentioned, the antichrist that wasn't</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:53:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzedrine_calmstheitch/pseuds/benzedrine_calmstheitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On his 12th birthday Warlock receives an unexpected present.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nanny Ashtoreth &amp; Warlock Dowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SOSH - Guess the Author #4 "A Gift"</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>All You Have To Do Is Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for round 4 of the Soft Omens Snuggle House's Guess the Author. This round's prompt is "a gift."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was unbearably hot the day Warlock Dowling turned twelve years old. <em> It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity </em>, that’s what he kept hearing over and over all summer. Mr. Dowling had been promoted last year, given a position in Washington, D.C., and so after a year of boarding school Warlock had spent all summer swimming through the air and sweating through his shirts. He missed England.</p><p>At least this year his party was inside. Heaven forbid that one of theiPad Pros, wrapped in gaudy paper and given to Warlock by the child of some lobbyist or another, be left out in the scorching sun and swampwater air to completely melt before it could even be opened. After the dutiful consumption of cake and ice cream he sat to tackle the mountain of gifts artfully arranged on a long wooden table supposedly carved by Paul Revere’s second cousin-in-law, or something. </p><p>Warlock tried, he did. He opened, he smiled, he said thank you while making eye contact. A few gifts he actually thought he’d enjoy despite himself; it’s a shame whoever gave him a first edition of <em> The Lost World </em> didn’t include their name, so he didn’t know who to genuinely thank. Until finally, the last gift. A small box, about the size of a dollar bill and only a few inches tall. Wrapped in pitch black paper, with a deep red bow. Something felt special about this, although it too, had no card. He untied the ribbon and ran a fingernail along the seams of the paper, undoing the tape. The box itself was also black, and wooden, with a top that slid out of grooves cut into the side. He opened it, revealing a red velvet lining, until the object centered inside caught his eyes. A pair of round, dark sunglasses in thin silver frames. Just like — Warlock whipped his head up and searched the room for crimson hair and a severe silhouette, but to no avail. She wasn’t here. He lifted the sunglasses; probably just a coincidence, and these were some expensive designer pair meant to impress his father that just happened to look like . . . there was a small ivory card beneath where the frames had lain. In elegant black script, it said:</p><p><em> Dearest Warlock, </em><br/>
<em> Many happy returns on your birthday. If you ever need me, you have my number. I think of you always, and will forever be, </em></p><p>
  <em> Your Nanny </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Warlock dug in his pocket and pulled out his iPhone, scrolling through his contacts. He had never called her, he hadn’t even seen her since he was six years old, but yet, there it was. <b> <em>Nanny Ashtoreth</em> </b> <em> . </em>He had to know right now, guests be damned. It’s his party, he can text if he wants to.</p><p>...<em> Nanny? Is it you? </em></p><p>
  <em>Happy birthday, Warlock. I’ve missed you.</em>
</p><p><em><br/>
</em>Warlock put the sunglasses on to hide the tears suddenly springing into his eyes, but there was no hiding his grin, so wide it bridged the Atlantic.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAR_Ff5A8Rk">"You've Got a Friend."</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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